


Small Sacrifices

by Vrunka



Series: Transgressions, Sins, the Unforgivable [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Blasphemy, Choking, M/M, Rough Sex, Torture, Violence, even more pretentious religious imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9317075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Remember Ceaser. You have a duty to keep the peace so crucify him.Remember Ceaser. You'll be demoted. You'll be deported. Crucify him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heed them tags please.

The papers lay across Jack's desk like a wound. Open, scabrous, festering. He recognizes the article. He had read it this morning.

Someone has been gracious enough to print it for him. Leave it on his desk.

Jack spreads his hand across the papers. The sensational headline (World Peace But At What Cost) the byline about black hoods and dystopian futures. The video link, useless now, just printed ink and paper.

Warning, it still reads, the following images may be considered heinous, violent and disturbing. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.

The image under the headline is a still from the video.

An overhead view, a man strapped to a chair. Another by the door, leaning back against it, seemingly at ease.

Jack has watched the video seven times. Jack knows the lounging man is Rockefort; one of Gabe's, a Blackwatch agent, through and through. He is wearing his uniform, the Blackwatch symbol like blood on his sleeves.

And then later, covered in blood.

And then later still--

Jack cuts his thoughts off by sweeping his hands through the printed article. Scattering it and the ones under it and the reports and the files and everything Jack keeps on his desk. They go flying, they flutter and tear and crumple. His shoulder is jammed up under the desk, where his legs would go.

It takes barely a thought to flip the whole thing over. The satisfying crack as the hardwood meets the unyielding floor. His computer crashes to earth like the rest of it. The screen shatters.

Wires like guts, exploding outward on impact.

He is yelling, he realizes almost belatedly. Wordless, agonized yelling. He catches himself, the sounds stutter, melt into a keen. He shudders, the fight goes out of him.

He collapses into the mess he has made.

World at peace.

But at what cost?

Jack leans his head into the absolute wreck of his desk. The desire to destroy is still there. His fists itch to punch something, rip and tear and shred until there is nothing left.

He thinks of Gabe.

Oh God he thinks of Gabe.

He stands, shaking. His muscles feel newborn, a child's. The papers wrinkle beneath his boots.

Rockefort's face beneath his soles. The sobbing man, tied to the chair. Before the blood began, while the man still had eyes to cry with.

He pulls his office door open.

The halls are silent. Dead. Normally they would be bustling. Everyone knows; they've gone to ground. Rats fleeing the sinking ship though the analogy is unfair, too cruel.

Jack would flee from this too, if he could.

McCree left, weeks ago. Jack remembers the conversation-- 'don't tell Reyes, please, he'll want me to stay and I can't, Morrison, I know ya prolly can't understand or respect it but I just can't'--and the panic in McCree's face. He should have realized then. He should have put it together.

The reports with their vague detailing. Information from untraceable sources, shadowed and veiled but always right. Always right.

Jack had known, watching the video at two in the morning, over and over and over. Jack had always known in his gut.

He just hadn't asked.

He'd been afraid of the answers.

And now, disaster.

Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International clogging his inbox. The forwarded emails from angry, shocked, concerned citizens. The UN wants nothing to do with it; radio silence from the few heads above Jack's own.

Condemnation.

He knocks on Gabe's door. Raps, knuckles beating hard enough against the metal to ache.

No answer.

Jack tilts his head back. The camera above the door, black and unassuming. Jack can see the glint of the lens inside. He wants to scream.

He keys his override security code into the number pad instead.

The door slides open.

Gabe's room is empty. But the sound of the running shower cues Jack in. The bathroom door is closed.

To keep the steam in.

Gabe's laptop sits on his desk. The screen is cracked. Little drops of blood on the smooth metal surface of the desk. Smeared in some places.

Gabe's rosary is there too.

Broken beads.

Splashed with blood.

Gabe counting out his sins, all of his fucking sins, as this came down with the evening news. Jack shudders, picks the beads up from where they lay. Little shards of glass against his palm. Gabe's blood on his fingers.

This is My blood, the blood of the new and ever-lasting covenant.

Jack closes his eyes. The remaining beads crush to dust in his fist.

It makes him feel slightly better, in a sick, hollow way.

He tosses the string away. The bead remnants cling to him; He rubs his hand against his thighs. 

This is My blood, may it be shed for you and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven.

The shower has stopped running.

Jack cradles his head in his hands. Sinks to the floor. The impotent glass dust glitters between his knees, dotting the carpet, catching the light.

The door opens.

Gabe only seems slightly surprised to see him.

There is a towel wrapped around his waist. Water rolls down the planes of his abs, catching in the hair. Jack sobs. Rocks forward on his knees.

Gabriel stares at him.

"God damn it, Jack," he says.

It speaks volumes about the two of them.

Gabe crosses the room, cards his fingers into Jack's hair. Gentle, soothing. "God damn it all, Jack." There is a jagged line of fresh skin on his knuckles, healed up flesh.

So that our sins may be forgiven.

Jack doesn't know what he wants. He is angrier than he has ever been in his life, enraged, betrayed, hurt. But he is weak. And Gabe's hands, soft and warm, are offering a familiar comfort.

"What can I do?" Gabe asks. "Tell me what you need."

Jack doesn't know.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know.

He draws a ragged breath between his teeth, pulls Gabe's hand down to his lips. Kisses, heated and wrong, against Gabe's skin.

This is My body. Take this and eat.

Gabe's thumb presses past his lips, catches on his canine and Gabe hisses.

"Jack," he says. "Jackie."

The need to destroy, to shatter, makes him bite down. Not hard enough to draw blood--of the ever-lasting covenant--but hard enough that Gabe curses under his breath, curls his fingers against Jack's cheek.

He drops to his knees, pressing into Jack's space. Radiating moist heat. His fingers leave Jack's mouth.

His tongue takes their place.

Jack reaches for Gabe's shoulders, his head. His shower-warm skin. He pulls Gabe into him, against him. The towel puddles to the floor. Jack anchors a hand against Gabe's hip.

There is a scar under his palm. Thin, jagged knife wound. Another one, higher up on Gabe's ribs. Jack remembers them happening.

The rending of flesh. Gunshot wounds and torn up places.

Jack's got scars too. Gabe is working at his clothes to get at them. Stripping away the layers. The pretense.

Take this and eat, for this is My body. Take this and eat of My flesh. Do this in memory of Me.

Jack scrapes his teeth down Gabe's neck, sucks a hickey into the familiar skin. Right where Gabe's shoulder starts. He must have sucked at least a hundred there. Probably more. The skin is warm under his tongue, just a little acrid from Gabe's body wash.

Gabe sighs, groans.

His cock is already hard between them, jutting up from between his thighs. His fingers fumble to free Jack's.

Matching states.

The anger isn't forgotten, but it's subdued by the rush of these old habits. Gabe's breath like a prayer in Jack's hair, his reverent touches, his careful worship.

Jack spreads his legs as far as his pants will allow, the material protests the stretch. A seam pops, Jack feels it go.

He doesn't care.

Gabe's hands on him, that's the important thing. Gabe's fingers curling around the head of his cock. Fingernail catching lightly against his urethra. Jack shudders, pushes forward. Practically climbing into Gabe's lap.

He drowns out everything in Gabe's mouth.

Every sensation.

Like fire.

Searing.

Even though all may stumble because of You, I will never fall away.

"Gabe," Jack says. His hips hitch, thigh muscles shaking.

"I've got you," Gabe says. His breath tastes like toothpaste. Minty. "I've got you, Jackie."

For I will not drink from this fruit of the vine.

For I will never fall away.

So that our sins may be--

Gabe's cock is rubbing against his. Like old times. Thick and right and warm and pulsing against him. Jack whines, maneuvers his hands to tug Gabe's foreskin. Spreading the slick with his palms, cum sticky between his fingers.

Trailing down his cock, foreign. Burning.

For this is My blood, and this is My body. And this is My soul.

Do this in memory of Me.

"I can't, Gabe. Gabriel." Jack shakes his head. His cock leaks, every pulse of it spilling from him drags him further away from his anger. "Oh God," he says, "Jesus, Gabe, please. Take--"

this cup away from me.

"--me. I just need--"

Sensation. He needs raw sensation. He needs it taken away. The past fifteen hours. The anger. The burden.

The blood of the new and everlasting covenant.

Shedding.

Spilling.

And Jack, holding the knife. Washing his hands.

"I don't have anything." Gabe's lips tremble against him. "I wasn't...I haven't been..."

"I don't care!" Jack wraps his fingers around Gabe's ears, nails scraping against his scalp. "Please. Anything. Spit for fuck's sake."

It will not be comfortable, for either of them.

But Jack isn't looking for steady comfort.

He needs to be wrecked, fucked out.

Gabe sighs against his cheek, rough facial hair, touch scars. He sighs and he says, "Okay, Jack, okay."

He lays Jack back, flips the two of them in a move that seems effortless. Gabe's abs bunching and stretching. Jack's shirt has ridden up. The floor is cool against his sweating skin.

Gabe strips his pants from him. Jack's legs fall open. Gabe is looking at him like he is something precious. Emotion that has no place between them any longer.

Reverent silent wonder.

Take this and eat, so that our sins may be forgiven.

Gabe lowers his head, swings Jack's leg over his shoulder. Presses close. Jack's muscles remember the stretch, his knee pressing toward his sternum. The tightness in them is welcome, distracting.

Gabe spits, audible. Jack gasps as it drips down his crack. Gabe's blunt fingers, wet with saliva and come, gathering it where it needs to go. Even with the spit, it is terribly dry.

Jack's throat catches over a guttural, animal noise.

It is going to be too much.

He has never wished for anything more.

Gabe takes only a few minutes, fingers slipping into Jack's body, hasty, rushed. Like they will remember what has happened, like their time is limited. Jack keens as Gabe scissors them, rubbing the moisture in. Spreading it as best he can.

"It's gonna hurt, Jackie."

"Good."

"Jack..."

"Fuck you. Just do it."

Oh God, oh Father the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Let this cup pass without Me having to drink.

Gabe lines up.

Gabe pushes in.

The blunt head meets the resistance of Jack's ass. Rubs against Jack in the most maddening, sobering, terrible way.

Jack clenches his teeth and tries to breath through it. Forces his muscles to relax.

And slowly the head begins to breech him.

Jack huffs. His fingers anchor themselves against Gabe's shoulder. In Gabe's shoulder.

Blood of the covenant under his nails.

The head feels impossibly wide, bigger than Jack ever remembers. But they've never been this unprepared. He whines, rolls his head.

"Jack, I can," Gabe's voice is a fight. It comes to him from far away. In between panting curses, muttered groans. "I can stop. If you need me to. I don't wanna. Want to hurt you."

The hurt is done, the damage is irreversible. Jack's digs his fingers harder in answer. Unable to produce anything more than plaintive moaning. Pitiful sounds.

Gabe's cock works him open.

And it hurts.

But it's constructive. Jack drops one hand to his own cock, strokes it. More stimulation than he needs. He shudders and jerks and relaxes, just slightly.

And Gabe is in.

Just the thick head. But it's something. Gabe works his hips in tiny circles.

"You're so tight, Jack. I can't--"

I cannot. The flesh is weak. Is so weak.

Jack shakes his head. "It's." He licks his lips. "Okay. Enough."

It's enough.

Gabe ruts against him.

That fat head, filling Jack so shallowly. Pressing just a little deeper before pulling back. Hitching. Circling. Jack curls his fingers on his cock. Drags them up the length of it.

His nails catch.

And he comes.

The flesh is weak. Trembling. Tumbling. Spilling.

So that our sins may be forgiven.

Gabe groans something nonsense. His lips scour Jack's, teeth and tongue and minty breath. He isn't far to follow.

Jack feels his flood of release, sticky and molten between his cheeks. Dripping out of him even as Gabe gives a last shallow thrust.

Jack shivers. The cold of the tile seeps into his limbs. Gabe hovers above him. His face is calm.

Even if I have to die with You, I will not deny You.

Everyone else may stumble, but I will never fall away.

Jack closes his eyes.

The image behind them is of the weeping man.

He shivers again. It has little and less to do with the cold.

"Where is Rockefort?"

"Jack..." Gabe's voice is strained, gravelly. The pleasure has left Jack feeling worse than before. More hollow. More empty.

"I'm asking as your commander, Gabe. Where is he?"

Jack's eyes flutter open.

Gabe looks down. "He's been confined to quarters. Awaiting the court martial. The suspension. Whatever you hand down."

"Whatever I hand down." The tone is out of Jack's control. His voice is shriller than he has ever heard before. Catching in a grating, hysterical slide. "Me? You think I'm in control of this?"

Gabe blinks, shrugs. "Aren't you though," he asks. There is something cold in his words. "Strike Commander Morrison."

"Don't fucking pull that with me, Gabe. I watched--this whole fucking world watched a man wearing our colors cutting another man's eyes out today. His fucking eyes. With a pen knife. Without anesthetic."

"He was following orders."

"Your orders? Whose fucking orders?"

"Yours."

"Not mine! I never said you--"

"Whatever means necessary is the way you put it, I believe. Blackwatch, there to do what is necessary."

Jack sits up. The anger is back. Contorting his breath, clenching in his chest. His head bumps Gabe's chin, clips against it and Gabe hisses and sits back on his heels.

"Rockefort cut his FUCKING eyes out, Gabe! And for what? What piece of information did you collect off him, huh? What location, what name, what group? What did you get us?"

Gabe looks away again. Furious. Jack's almost surprised he hasn't gotten hit. That it hasn't turned physical. They're both short fused, but Jack can tell he's cut an even more tender nerve this time.

"What did he know," Jack asks.

Though he already knows the answer.

Gabe shakes his head. "We were wrong on this one. Guy was a...a sympathizer. But too low on the chain to have anything."

Jack nods. Sneering. His lip is caught over his teeth. "A sympathizer. That a cute way of saying civilian?"

"He was a terrorist."

"He screams for his family. For mercy. And Rockefort slits his wrists. And America and England and the fucking UN, they all have front row seats."

"I've seen the video."

Jack bites his lip. "Of course you have. Do you watch them all? How could you be so fucking stupid? Did you do a sweep? Routine check? How the hell did it get caught on tape, Gabe? And what am I supposed to tell people?"

"He's one of my boys, following orders. That's the official statement. You can't give blanket coverage and then turn around and revoke it as soon as it bites you in the ass. You sanctioned this, Jack."

Father, oh Father, let this cup pass from Me without My having to drink.

Bitterness and vomit across the back of Jack's tongue. In his throat. "You don't get to dictate the official statement."

Gabe's expression twists. Darkening. "So you throw him to the wolves then? Say he's rogue. Lie? You'd do that to cover you're own ass?"

Jack shakes his head. "It's not about Rockefort. No one fucking wants Rockefort."

Dawning breaks across Gabe's face. Trembling awful realization. "What the fuck are you saying?"

"It's bigger than Rockefort. I've got citizens from a hundred countries demanding heads. For those responsible. And from where I'm--"

Gabe is moving before the sentence is finished. His palms are calloused. The pulse in his thumb is rapid, bird-like. It contradicts Jack's own, overrides it, pressed too tight against Jack's carotid.

Cutting off Jack's air and his words and his thoughts.

Jack opens his mouth. The mint flavor, siphoned from Gabe's mouth, has gone stale. He grunts.

No sound comes out.

His tongue juts. His eyes bulge. He cannot breath. Gabe's fingernails gouge furrows in his skin. Jack can feel, hyper-sensitive, how each nail rips against him.

Jack's legs, coil and bend and kick. Uselessly. Gabe is too close for them to have impact. Gabe's come leaks from his ass.

Jack could laugh.

If there weren't black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Caught mid-sentence, he has less air. His hand catches Gabe's wrist.

Useless.

Useless.

The dots are dancing, wavering. For the first time, Jack is scared of his own death. He's taken bullets for the man above him, has feared Gabe's death more than his own, time and time again.

And now--

Desperate, suddenly. Jack throws his arm up. Strength borne from urgency. His palm strikes Gabe's nose with a crack. Bones shifting and breaking and snapping. Blood and snot raining down on Jack's face. His arms.

Gabe's hands retreat, Gabe's weight is gone, off of him.

Blessed air.

Sweet relief.

Jack lays on the ground, gasping. He turns on his side, jackknifes, heaving. Gabe's blood drips from his face.

Take this and drink. So it may be shed for you and for all.

Gabe is shaking, curled in on himself. His hands are fists. His nose is destroyed.

He is naked still.

It's ridiculous.

The sight makes Jack feel sick.

The sobbing man and Gabe. Sacrifices.

The cup will pass. Jack will not drink.

But Gabe will.

Jack gathers his limbs under him. There tears on his face. Come splashed on his thighs. His ass and lower back twinge as he stands.

But this too will pass.

Jack finds his pants. He pulls them on.

Gabe's blood is drying on his cheeks. Jack wipes at it, smears it.

"So you're going?" Gabe asks.

Jack touches his neck. The dents in his skin. They're healing already, Jack can feel the tingling of his regeneration at work. "You think I would stay?"

"I don't think anything. I don't know you. The man I knew wouldn't do this. Give up his men to defend himself. The Jack Morrison I knew wasn't that sort of coward." His face is contorted. Disgusted. The skin below his eyes is already puffing up, his nose splashed sideways, across his cheek.

"Yet you fucked me. Not too disgusted for a good lay. You aren't righteous, Gabriel."

Gabe shakes his head. Touches his nose, gingerly, hissing between his teeth.

"There's going to be a trial, probably. A press conference."

Gabe's eyes sweep over him. Jack only falters for a moment. His shoulders curling inward, fingers flexing at his sides.

"Get out," Gabe says. "Just get the fuck out."

-

'Take the blame,' Jack thinks.

The microphones. The buzzing lights. Television cameras. All trained on his face.

It's been years.

He is used to this by now.

Take this and drink. Take it and drink. Please take it.

Jack takes a breath. A thousand questions are being thrown in his direction, untraceable, practically deafening. Reporters yelling. Demanding.

It would be so easy.

Jack opens his mouth.

The crowd falls silent. Rapt. Jack's hand shakes. His mouth closes. Opens again.

And the man they called Judas Iscariot went the chief priests and said:

"How much would you give me, to betray him to you?"

"Do you want the name? Would you like your answers?"

Betrayal.

Sacrifices.

Blood on Jack's hands. Just another fucking layer.

May it be shed for you, and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven.


End file.
